Danger Night
by bohowriter
Summary: Set during "A Scandal in Belgravia," after Sherlock identifies Irene Adler's body at the morgue. There had been danger nights before, but never had they involved someone's death. John Watson finds himself unsure of how to proceed, while Sherlock Holmes focuses solely on escape. Rated T for language and mentions of drug use. (Complete.)
1. Chapter 1

**Danger Night**

**Summary**: Set after Sherlock identifies Irene Adler's body at the morgue. There had been danger nights before, but never had they involved someone's death. John Watson finds himself unsure of how to proceed, while Sherlock Holmes focuses solely on escape.  
**Setting/spoilers**: Season 2, episode 1, "A Scandal in Belgravia."  
**Rating**: T for language.  
**Author's Note**: Thanks to Ariane DeVere's livejournal transcripts of _Sherlock_, which proved valuable for dialogue from the episode.

**Chapter 1**

"_Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"  
"No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."_

Never mind it was Christmas. Never mind that he had plans. John could have refused Mycroft, he knew it, but he didn't. Of course he didn't. And an hour later he was sitting in his chair, waiting, trying to look inconspicuous to the man who could pick out the smallest of lies before Pinocchio's nose even thought to grow.

When he wanted to, at least.

After Sherlock had returned (only to immediately disappear into his room), John remained on his chair, holding the book he had been pretending to read, and staring at the wall. He hadn't been sure how to properly prepare for tonight. There'd been danger nights before, but mostly only due to lack of a case or too much time indoors or maybe Mercury being in retrograde (John didn't subscribe to astrology, but Sherlock's fluctuating moods were enough to make him Google it just to make sure). Never for someone's death.

He heard the bedroom door open again, Sherlock go into the bathroom, and the shower turn on. John stood and went into the kitchen, on the pretense of hunting down leftovers from the party. He reckoned he could be in the kitchen when Sherlock came out, and that way if the younger man wanted to talk…but he stopped the thought there. Sherlock wanting to talk? Even thinking it sounded ridiculous.

Ten minutes or so later, with John worrying he was spoiling the food by standing with the fridge door ajar, the bathroom door opened. John walked backwards from the refrigerator, catching a glimpse of his flatmate ghosting towards his room, dressing gown tied tight, black hair damp.

"All right, mate?" John called.

Sherlock turned his head only slightly. "Going to bed," he replied tersely.

"Goodni—" the bedroom door latching cut John off midway. He shrugged to himself and went back to the fridge, this time to actually seek food rather than just pretend. _Well, what do you say to him?_ John asked himself. _They weren't really lovers, but they were…something. And now she's dead. And who the hell knows how he's taking it._

The only indications that things were a bit not good were the call from Mycroft and the text from Molly, after Sherlock had identified Irene's body.

_He recognized her when I removed the entire sheet_, she had written. _Why only when he saw her whole body?_

_It's complicated_, John had replied. Now, he thought back to Sherlock's remark as he _didn't_ look at a nude Irene Adler upon their first meeting: "If I wanted to look at naked women I'd borrow John's laptop."

"But you _did_ look at her, apparently," John muttered. Then he paused for a moment, glancing over at the desk where said laptop lay. He narrowed his eyes, then threw his glance back at his flatmate's door. Closed. No noise from within. John wasn't stupid enough to actually believe Sherlock was sleeping, but clearly he wasn't planning on coming out any time soon.

John abandoned the food, retrieved the laptop, and retired to the sofa. He couldn't go anywhere for the night, and he was newly single, so…fuck it.

* * *

Sherlock had no intention of going to sleep. It was not because it was Christmas. It was not because he had seen Irene Adler laid out on a gurney. It was not because she had left him her camera phone before…well, before _whatever_ happened to her. It was not because he knew John was still in the sitting room, babysitting him. It was just another night, and he rarely slept anyway, so why start now?

Since he had banished himself to his room, however, it limited his activities. His experiments were laid out in every other part of the flat. His violin was in the sitting room. John's laptop…well, Sherlock had left John alone for the night, so he didn't want to think what was happening with the laptop currently.

"Mind palace it is," he muttered, arranging himself comfortably on his bed. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. Despite the fact that he now possessed the camera phone, it was still locked: Sherlock had checked it himself. Now he had to figure out the passcode, and that might pass the time as well as anything else.

He was walking down the hall to the room where he kept his information on Irene, when without warning, there she was. She was wearing nothing but his coat, which made no sense, except he looked down and saw he _wasn't_ wearing it. Sherlock jumped, both internally and physically, at the sight of her, and she smiled seductively, and was opening her mouth to say something and—

"No!" Sherlock shook himself back to reality. He was disturbed to find his heart rate had increased, his breathing quickened. But it wasn't arousal. It was something else, something…not good. He breathed deeply, trying to get himself under control. He hadn't consciously thought of The Woman, so why did she appear in his Mind Palace?

It took some time to clear the image from his mind, but with patience Sherlock could close his eyes without seeing Irene's likeness. It was a fluke, that was all. It wouldn't happen again. Sherlock was sure of it. Now calm, he closed his eyes and returned to the room…only to find The Woman there, again. And this time she spoke, her voice somehow smooth and throaty all at once: "I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner." Sherlock froze and Irene walked closer, reaching for his face like she had before and—

"NO!" Sherlock opened his eyes, and this time his physical reaction was worse. He was sweating and his chest felt tight, like something was drawing up inside him. His thoughts, which he could usually slow when needed, were racing. He jumped off his bed and began to pace, keeping speed with his mind, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to quell the rising tide of panic.

But it was no use. It was out of control, everything, and Sherlock couldn't reign it back in. It wasn't because of Irene, though, it was _not_ _because of her_. It was because of the nicotine earlier, probably, he'd gone too long without it and he had low tolerance now and it made him jumpy. Or it was because it was Christmas after all, and everyone had been at Baker Street and out of their ordinary worlds with Lestrade at the Yard and Molly at Bart's. It was like Carnival, with everything upside down, and he did better with things as they should be. Or maybe he had eaten too much, or even been poisoned or—

Sherlock stopped, breathing heavily. It didn't matter, in the end, why it was happening. It had happened before. He knew what would fix it, and knew he just had to get out the door and only a few streets down, and he could shut everything up and out, and when he came back to himself some hours or days later it would be over.

He only needed to get out of the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John's head raised off the sofa the moment he heard the floorboard creak.

"Sherlock?" he asked, in a slight daze from being roused out of sleep.

In the dark John could see his flatmate standing halfway to the door. His coat was back on and he was carrying his shoes, obviously trying to slip out unnoticed.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Sherlock said quietly. "I was going for a walk."

John glanced at his watch. "At this time of night?" He stood and crossed the room to stand between Sherlock and the door. "Nah, I don't think so."

"John," Sherlock said, his voice barely restrained. "Move. Now."

John shook his head. "No. We're staying in tonight, you and I."

Even in the dark, he could see the shadow pass over Sherlock's face. "John—"

The former soldier spread his feet shoulder-width apart and broadened his shoulders. "Look, mate," he began, using a quiet voice he thought he had left behind with his military career. "You're not going through that door tonight. You're not leaving the flat. And if you try...well, don't think I'll avoid your nose and teeth this time."

The slight reference to Irene made something flicker in Sherlock's eyes and his breath caught, just slightly. If John hadn't been looking, he wouldn't have seen it. _So that's it, then_, he thought. _She's on his mind after all_.

"Go sit down, mate." John's voice was gentler now, more himself, though he kept his stance guarded just in case. "You don't need this. It's all fine."

Sherlock huffed a sigh and turned towards his chair, and John relaxed a bit more. He'd won the battle for now, but he knew he was in for a long night.

* * *

Seated in his chair, Sherlock noticed his hands trembling once again. The thought of a hit had calmed him, the anticipation of escape enough to buy him a few moments' peace. But now that he knew it wasn't going to happen, the panic was setting in once again.

And it was worse now, because John was here, and the last thing Sherlock needed was to break in front of his best friend.

Sherlock stared at the ground, trying to still his body as John fiddled with something in the kitchen. He briefly thought of making a run for the door, but John seemed serious about the offer to physically restrain him. Mycroft had tried, in the past danger nights before John came along, and Sherlock always easily bested him. But Mycroft feared physical pain, while Sherlock knew John almost welcomed it. And given his current state, Sherlock couldn't guarantee he would win a fight tonight.

His flatmate returned, two glasses of whiskey in one hand and the bottle in another. He offered one glass to Sherlock who glanced up and raised his eyebrows.

"Your medical solution?" he asked sarcastically, though he took the offering.

John knocked his own drink against Sherlock's in a kind of toast. "Not your doctor tonight. This is from your friend."

Sherlock eyed the liquid, then threw it back, draining it in one gulp. He winced as it went down, relishing the thought that he knew the source of this burn. That he chose to inflict it.

"Hit the spot, then?" John asked, refilling the glass before taking his place in his own chair.

Sherlock sighed. "It's not what I was looking for. But I suppose it will suffice."

"Well, it's legal, and a bit more acceptable than what you were looking for."

"As if I care about _acceptable_."

"Won't kill you as quick, then."

Sherlock scowled at John's light tone. "As if that matters. All lives end. All hearts are broken." His voice caught slightly on the last word. Hearing Mycroft say it was one thing, but—

John shook his head. "No. That's your brother talking. Not you."

"That's Mycroft's philosophy, _as well as_ mine," Sherlock snapped. "I know what all this," he waved his hand towards John and the alcohol, "is about tonight. But I assure you: I am not affected by what has transpired. There is no point in forming attachments, and no purpose in mourning when others are gone."

"Right," John replied, his voice facetious. "'Cause what would be the purpose in caring for someone?"

"Caring is not—"

"_Stop_ repeating what he says to you!" John exclaimed suddenly. "You think you can just brush this off, go on like normal, but it doesn't work that way, Sherlock! Even for you."

Despite the alcohol, Sherlock's heartrate had picked back up, his breaths quickening. His mind wouldn't quiet; he knew the whiskey wouldn't be enough to help. "I didn't even know her!" he argued, possibly to John or possibly just to himself.

"_Yes you did!_" John reached forward, grabbed the younger man by the shoulders. Through his racing thoughts, Sherlock realized John would feel him trembling and he registered a flash of embarrassment.

"You knew her, Sherlock. You knew her well enough for this to bother you, if it does." John paused. "It bothers me, and you knew her better than I did."

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. _This_ was not what he needed. He needed a hit so he could stop thinking. And if he couldn't have that, then he needed Mycroft there, reminding him he had no reason to mourn, no reason to hurt. He needed someone supporting the walls around him, keeping him in control. Instead, he had John-John who, for all his own emotional reticence, seemed perfectly fine with letting his friend's carefully maintained barriers be destroyed, his emotions laid bare. What kind of support was _that_?

But the anger at John couldn't last, and it soon dissipated into something else. Something worse and more frightening. Sherlock looked up at John, his guard failing. He knew John could see on his face what he was thinking, and was grateful he wouldn't have to ask it out loud, though he desperately needed to hear an answer.

_Is it okay to feel this way?_

"It's all right it bothers you, mate," John answered.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. His mind had quieted once his anger died down, but the physical effects had been amplified. He was shivering openly now, perspiration forming around his brow. He leaned forward, placing his temple into his hands, but keeping his fingers apart so he could still see. He didn't want complete isolation just yet. John let go of Sherlock's shoulders, but remained leaned forward in his chair, mere inches away.

"Feels like withdrawal," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah," John sighed. "That's a bit what it's like." He paused, averting his eves to the floor. "You ever lost anyone before?" Sherlock stayed silent, watching John through his fingers. He didn't want to talk, but strangely, he didn't mind the idea of listening.

"Don't see how you could make it into your thirties without losing someone, but maybe you have," John said softly. "Well, for me...when my Dad died, it was rough. And then when Mum died, it was like I lost her and also Dad all over again." He paused. "Then my friends in the war…" John's voice trailed off, his eyes shining slightly. "What I'm trying to say is, sometimes when you lose someone, it opens up old wounds. And try as you might to escape them, you can't."

"That…night at the pool," Sherlock said, well aware of the trembling in his voice. "With…Moriarty. When you—with the bomb—"

He couldn't say anymore. He couldn't say it.

_I felt like this then. But this time is worse. I don't know why_.

"Ah," John replied. "Yeah." He chuckled. "Almost lost me then, yeah? Almost lost yourself, too."

"But—"

"Still counts," John cut off the argument. "Definitely still counts for nightmare stuff you can't shake. Just, now it actually happened to someone you know. _Knew_." Sherlock heard rather than saw John look up at him, peering at the pale face partially hidden. "Happened to someone you cared about. Regardless of how you knew each other, or for how long. It doesn't matter."

John paused a moment, considering his next words and their likely effect. "Irene died, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I know it hurts you."

_Damn you, John Watson. _Sherlock let out another shuddering breath, pressed his face deeper into his hands to compensate for his guard now fully down.

"Yeah," Sherlock choked out weakly, finally giving in, finally admitting it, though John knew the truth anyway. He always did. But John deserved to hear it, just as Sherlock deserved to say it. If only for tonight.

"Yeah," he whispered again. He closed his eyes then, and saw her once again. Irene. Only this time, he consciously willed the image. Smiling, teasing, reaching for him. _Alive. _

And with that, the tension in his chest finally broke free.

* * *

_To be concluded..._


	3. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

John busied himself in the kitchen, allowing his friend a moment of earned privacy. He drew a glass of water, and waited to return to the sitting room until Sherlock had raised his head and discretely wiped his face. John offered the glass as nonchalantly as possible, then he nodded towards the television.

"Another legal way to escape," he offered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't complain when John switched it on and found an old movie, one they both enjoyed with no deep emotional subplots. And later, when they were nodding off with the weight of the day, John directed Sherlock to the sofa, while he stretched out on the floor just beneath.

"Not that I don't trust you," he said, though Sherlock knew that was a lie, but only in the context of tonight. Not always.

"You won't be able to move in the morning, you know," Sherlock remarked as John fashioned a pallet out of a blanket.

"Trust me, I've had worse," John chuckled.

Just before they drifted off, Sherlock noticed the darkness growing thinner in the room. Nearly daybreak. "It's officially Christmas," he remarked, unsure of why he was even making this comment. It had been Christmas for hours, and it didn't mean anything then. Why should it now?

"Yeah, Merry Christmas," John murmured, nearly asleep. "Didn't get you anything yet, Sherlock. M'sorry. Thought I'd...bring you something back…from Harry's…"

_Didn't get you anything yet_. Sherlock thought about the irony of that statement, and smiled for the first time all night. The tightness in his chest was still there, but at a manageable level. It was like getting stitches, or a broken bone set. The original pain lingered, but the body was healing. He took a deep breath, feeling somewhat less constricted.

"Merry Christmas, John."

_-end-_

* * *

**Thank you all for reading - feedback is very much appreciated!**


End file.
